


Still when, to where thou wert, I came

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels are fully monsters just like demons, Crowley feels absolutely no remorse or bad-feels about being a demon, Crowley very much Is Not Imagining Aziraphale of course, Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Demonic forms, Demons are just easier for humans to understand and enjoy a bit of a good (bad?) scare, Lots of Edging, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Prompt Fill, Rated E for Excessively Snakey Corporations, Snasturbation (snake masturbation), Very snakey, fully self indulgent, honestly that's all this is, kink meme fill, lets make one thing clear, lyin' all ding dang day long, not up in this bitch he doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Crowley puts in some extra hours at work, and since all his most recent invoices have been sent to Sloth he figures he might as well knock some Lust out too.In other words, it was time for an overly long, indulgent wank on his couch with a wine bottle in one hand and hemipenes in the other and definitelynotthinking about anything even vaguely shaped like Aziraphale, nossir.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Kinda - Relationship
Comments: 20
Kudos: 102





	Still when, to where thou wert, I came

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevdrag (seventhe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/gifts).



> Title from [Air and Angels](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44091/air-and-angels-56d2230aa341c) by John Donne (who absolutely fucks and no one was even trying to convince me otherwise!)
> 
> Kinkmeme can be found _[here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/4446.html?thread=3267422#cmt3267422)_
> 
> A gift as part of an impromptu exchange for Sevdrag cause apparently porn can get us to actually write something like nothing else...

Crowley took a pull from the wine bottle in one hand and hummed to himself, sprawled out on the couch in front of the hanging television in his flat. It was some weekday, just barely after noon, and Crowley wasn't entirely sure what he was meant to be doing other than "Sipping At The Cup of Sin," or SATCS or whatever it had been at the latest chalk-board presentation acronym in Hell.

He could check off Sloth for today, but he'd lagged on other sins like Wrath and Lust and such, and technically he didn't even _quite_ meet the standards of Sloth since sinning required any-of-the-above to the detriment of others. But Crowley was nothing if not a consummate liar. Pulling out his phone and logging in on a timesheet app—he'd found one that created the ugliest invoice in courier new to print and sent off to Hell's Filing department rather than deal with their "in house" forms. He typed in: _Drunken, disorderly conduct. (Lust)_ and set the time.

While he wasn't wholly drunken, and his conduct certainly wasn't disorderly as he wasn't in public, it was close enough for government work. With a lazy expenditure of power pulled up from his accounts in Hell, his clothing had been banished back to the nothing they'd been created from, and the tight hold he normally kept on his more outwardly demonic attributes relaxed—just a little. If he was going to get comfortable, then he'd be _blessed_ if he wasn't going to go all the way!

Scales rose to the surface of his skin, pebbling around his feet and ankles, turning the skin underneath them black as the first night. His nails lengthened just a little and his hands darkened up to his wrists until they looked more like talons. The blackened skin and scales trailed up to his knees and elbows, growing more scarce as they went. Alternating flecks of black and grey and red dwindled until they disappeared entirely, only to reappear around his throat beneath his jawline as large bands of red. Even his lips disappeared into scales that split his face all the way to his jaw. If Crowley was in a mood for levity, he'd say that he looked like he'd fallen onto his hands and knees in a vat of black dye.

He was monstrous like this, Crowley knew, but it never particularly bothered him. Angels were monsters too, to human eyes, and all demons had been angels before. Now they were just a bit more... earthly than their former selves, easier for humans to understand as pests and vermin and things to be feared in natural ways rather than existential horror.

Rather than being ashamed by it, Crowley reveled in it. He trailed fingertips lightly over the lines of scales leading down toward his pelvis and thighs. A human would have a treasure trail here, but the sensitive skin of Crowley's belly is protected by the smooth slide of scales in black and red. The sensation of it made him shiver. It had never been hard to figure out what would make him feel good like this; all the scales were red over his most sensitive places, like his belly, and faded into the black across his sides and back and all the places that were not as sensitive to touch. So Crowley was an expert, easily following the map of his body and keying himself up slowly. He let his nails scrape over his chest and dig into his throat, just enough to make his heart pound, teased himself with fingers and palms kneading across his inner thighs without touching the place he most wanted to.

And, once Crowley couldn't take his own damned teasing anymore, he relented. His breath came harder than normal, and he shivered in the air that felt suddenly cool to his heated skin despite the comfortable warmth of his flat. He let a low groan fall from his lips as he traced the pad of his fingers around the vertical vent between his legs. It was an odd mixture of genitalia; closed and hidden away from any wayward touch and normally what he kept on him in order to more comfortably fit into the tightest trousers he could.

With a bit of thought and effort, Crowley kept himself from becoming fully aroused, not willing to do anything but climb slowly and arduously to his eventual climaxes. Instead, he pressed along the seam of himself until his fingers caught the edges. The nerves there sparked and made him shiver, feeling the way steady rain on a windowpane sounded; endlessly firing, patterning in thousands of individual staccato rhythms. It was utterly blissful. Lazily, Crowley stroked himself with both fingers, letting his free hand continue over his chest and grasp at himself. He caught himself vaguely wishing that the hands weren't his own. But, not willing to go further down that fantasy without at least a bit of mental preparation, he turned his mind to focusing on the sensation of it rather than the fantasy.

His thighs trembled with the effort it took to keep himself still, to not give up the game up too quickly, to drag it out as long as he liked and then some. He _wa_ s on the clock, after all.

The wine bottle returned to his hand with another half-formed thought, and he drank from it just as leisurely as before. Still, he stroked his vent, dipping the pads of his fingers down into it on every stroke up to the top. A small hiss escaped him, without his permission when the errant thought of being caught like this popped into his head. No, not the thought of being _caugh_ t per sé; more the thought… being watched, of performing for someone who wanted to see him like this, for the pleasure of it.

That someone was decidedly a shapeless blob that absolutely did not have light, curling hair or storm grey eyes that changed with the lighting, of course. His half-arsed construction of a fantasy he'd otherwise stay away from absolutely didn't moan like crepes or sigh like perfectly-seasoned couscous or call him _my dear_ either. The thought of this nameless, formless entity he'd allowed to watch him didn't make him cant his hips up and spread his legs even further. Didn’t make him moaning as he slowly fucked his vent with his fingers, sliding them up and down along the sides until he could feel the tip of a hemipenis start to firm up and press out towards the opening of the vent.

Crowley hissed a strained _"Yessss,"_ and pulled his fingers back to stroke once more at the opening of his vent until his hemipenes pushed their way out and firmed up fully under the tentative touch of his hand. Instead of moaning again, Crowley drank more.

He licked the palm of his hand—well, more like drooled. Even with his tongue not fully snake, more of a halfway point in flexibility and thickness between human and his animal aspect, it wasn't particularly well-shaped for transferring saliva. He curled his fingers around the right hemipenis with a low, growling moan that echoed through his chest. It was fun, the performance of it; heightening his own sensation with the feeling of being watched. Even by someone who wasn't really there, who didn't really want to see how best to unravel him, who wasn't actually trembling in their seat and gripping at the legs of their trousers to keep from coming over and touching him.

Crowley wasn't done teasing himself yet. He drank sips of wine from the bottle that should have been drained dry long since; but he'd forgotten that such an injustice might have ever happened, and so, it hadn't. Stroking up and down the length of one cock, he hummed in pleasure as the small, fleshy barbs yielded to the pressure of his palm and fingers. His hips rocked back and forth and Crowley didn't bother to stifle the noises bubbling up out of his throat. If he did, it'd ruin the game with that nonentity watching him. Crowley was here for temptation; to inspire him to lust and disorder his conduct. According to what he’d put on his timesheet, so that's what he'd do. Even if there wasn't anyone to actually hear any of it.

Letting the bottle of wine settle on the corner of the couch, tucked against the back for safekeeping, Crowley conjured just a bit of lubrication and took the untouched hemipenis into hand. He let out a loud, luxurious moan that half-echoed off the concrete of the brutalist decor around him. His hips jerked and he rolled them up in a sinuous back and forth, fucking his hands at the same time. He clenched his fists slowly so that every thrust into them was just a little different, ratcheting up his arousal without giving him any actual satisfaction from the friction. The lack of easy rhythm kept him frustrated. Crowley could feel his breath coming in pants, his chest heaving in time with his heartbeat. And the way he strained at the cage of his skin, ready to push and press and keep going until there was nothing left but chasing that sensation.

Warmth shot through his veins. Sweat beaded over the skin that wasn't covered with scales, dripping down his forehead and leaving his hair wet. His mouth fell open and he swallowed loudly, wishing desperately for that something-no-one off to the side of his imagination to just give up and give in. Would fuck his face until he sobbed with the pleasure of it and to keep him from feeling so empty and restless. Heat pooled in his belly, like embers of a fire being stoked hotter and brighter, until he was so close— _fuck, so close, like that, fuck, yeesss, Azssiraph–_

Crowley's hands flew off his cocks, fingers digging so hard into the couch that the fabric split under his nails before he gathered himself. No, no, not yet, 's too early. He had to– he had to make it last. With a shuddering sigh, he forced his body to relax and turn pliant once more. The cool air of his flat and the slow pulls from the wine bottle did nothing to bank his arousal at all. There was lube and precum covering his hands, and now the bottle of wine and the couch as well, but that was a problem for later. For now, it just meant he could gather both his cocks in his hands, pressing them together where they wanted to spring apart in opposite directions, and close his eyes.

Lowering himself to his back on the couch from his sitting position, Crowley tossed a leg over the back of it and let his other hang off the side, foot braced on the floor. Right, right, a performance, a temptation. That's what he had to focus on…

"Oh, if you touched me, I'd fall apart, you know," Crowley whispered raggedly, to the no-one and nothing he wasn't looking at. His hips rolled again and he thrust up into his hands, breath hitching then falling into a groan as he writhed back and forth on the couch, the length of him showcased with every movement. His voice dripped with demonically powered Temptation he'd never use like this except in fantasy, rich and dark and alluring like cacao and blood-red wine.

"You'd want to see me like that, hm? Lost in everything but you, overwhelmed with pleasssure, overfloweth at your touch alone. Oh _fuck_ but what I wouldn't give for your hands on me. What sssatisssfaction I'd bring you, what bliss I'd deliver unto your altar, _sshit–_ please, pleassse…" He trailed off with a grunt, cut off by a moan and the stutter of his hips from a smooth roll into something jerky and unpretty.

So he stopped and forced himself to calm again, hissing angrily into the air at how pent up, how desperate, he was. _Fuck, fuck it._ Crowley thought and conjured a toy from the trunk hidden underneath his bed into his hand.

It was already warm to the point of nearly burning, dripping with fresh lubrication, and barely fitting in his hand. Usually, Crowley was more inclined to dildos and vibrators and things that would fill him, but the thoughts racing in his head were too much to push away. Too loud to ignore the nobody he wasn't thinking about watching him, the nothing he was Tempting to finally gave in and admit it was just as desperate for him. This time he didn't want to be fucked, he wanted to do the fucking. To put his hands on hips while he thrust into wet, tight heat with blissfully soft give; and so that was the toy he chose.

It was a thick tube with a lovingly detailed opening at one end; the hard nub of a clit situated at the apex of soft, pliant lips that spread effortlessly for easy penetration. It wasn't one Crowley used often, but when he did it was heavenly to sink into. Warm and welcoming and just this side of too tight, even when he only had one cock to shove up into it. Already the thought of fitting all of himself into it and imagining– No, imagining nothing, no one but himself fucking slowly into the unrelenting tightness as it clenched down on him. Imagining being forced to rock back and forth until he could press it down onto his cock, inch by agonizingly slow inch, pulled a ragged moan from his chest. If he weren't already laying down, the thought would have made him too weak to remain sitting upright.

Crowley imagined whoever-it-was already stripped, having done so at some point—didn't matter when—but they were bare and he could imagine the thick smell of arousal running down their thighs with every step. and He gathered his hemipenes in one hand as best he could and fit the sleeve toy at the tips, wishing there was a weight over his thighs instead of the too-light air. But he pushed the thought aside and was quickly brought back to the fantasy when a drip of lube fell from the opening of the sleeve onto his cocks. He moaned and kept himself still, knowing he'd ruin the whole thing if he surged up to kiss someone that wasn't there.

Instead, he breathed worship, laid the praises he wanted to say at any other time, as he slowly pressed in. Both cocks were throbbing with his desire, the fleshy barbs on the ends catching at the rim of the toy. A whine fell from his lips as he panted, doing his best to keep from thrusting up into it. "Oh good, good, fuck you're so blessed good. You feel amazing, Sat– Go– ffuck you're ssso tight. I could live here, I'd live here if you let me, worship between your thighs, fuck I love your thighs…"

Crowley imagined the person above him blushing, demure and soft and flushed with arousal on top of it. He imagined they'd throw their head back and sigh with every wiggle of their hips as they sunk down lower and lower onto him. Imagined them rocking back and forth, up and down, to drench him in their lust. Crowley was an inarticulate mess, the pressure was too much-not enough all at once. He growled and hissed like a bloody animal and ripped at the couch beneath him with a clawed hand but didn't fuck up into the toy. He couldn't— the whoever it was, the nobody—he couldn't let it be too much for them, wouldn't split them open on his cocks even if they begged for it. They'd have to debase themselves with him, he'd have to fuck _himself_ down on Crowley's hemipenes and feel the fullness of his continued choice.

He almost came like that, halfway into the sleeve toy and covered in sweat and lube dripping across his hips, but held on. Usually, only one hemipenis would climax at a time for truly marathon worthy goes at it, but every once in a while, if he did it right and both were… occupied equally, he'd have a climax to end all climaxes with double the pleasure and sensation and come. Crowley shuddered and breathed in and began again, imagining the impatience of the person above him and their stubborn desire to fit all of him. The toy rocked further down over Crowley's cocks and the pressure was almost painful, the slick sounds of lube squelched lewdly in the large, open room and Crowley's moans echoed around it.

The fire in his veins shot up again and magma pooled once more in his belly, but he didn't bother to stop with the toy, above Crowley the person wouldn't be willing to slow down, he wanted to ride Crowley's cocks, to take everything Crowley had to give him and triumph over it and fuck him into submission. Low, desperate groans and high-pitched whines fell from Crowley's mouth as he kept himself from ending it all then and there, the toy finally firmly pressing down against his hips.

"Fuuuck," Crowley hissed and lifted the toy off him nearly all the way before plunging it down around his cocks once more, and beginning a fast, brutal pace meant to fuck him into the couch. The only thing missing was a hand on his chest pinning him down, weight of a body over his thighs and hips, a breathy moan that somehow sounded posh and prim even now and– no, no, nothing was missing, this was a Temptation, work project, it was fine…

Unable to resist, his hips bucked up somewhat erratically, meeting the rhythm of the toy. His finger must have slipped up against a button where he gripped the toy tightly, and it began to vibrate at a setting Crowley wasn't prepared for up near where the tips of his hemipenes met with every thrust of his hips, and the toy contracted around him, sucking him in even further with replicated inner muscles mimicking an orgasm from the one he was buried in. Crowley was lost, tipped over the edge, saw the light behind his eyes, every and all metaphors up to and including the little death.

He cried out and tears watered his eyes for the intensity of it as he came from both the hemipenes into the tight, wet, heat in his hands, fucking up with stuttering hips in broken, brutal thrusts as lube and cum trickled out of the toy. Opening his eyes, Crowley groaned at the mess of cum and lube over his hips and stomach, his head falling back, and his muscles unclenching one by one. The toy was tossed to the side, he'd miracle it clean later when he cared enough to, and his cocks slowly turned back and returned inside his vent.

Crowley stood with a sigh, grabbed the bottle of wine and took a note of the time.

Three hours? Not too bad for a day's work… A snap and the waterfall shower started up in the bathroom and Crowley sauntered on wobbling legs while drinking directly from the bottle again.


End file.
